


One Life, Five Hundred Florins

by manic_intent



Series: Nature of the Beast [1]
Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Alternate Universe, M/M, Slash, pregame
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-30
Updated: 2011-11-30
Packaged: 2017-10-26 17:29:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,002
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/285997
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/manic_intent/pseuds/manic_intent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Gift fic.  The request was for Giovanni/Lorenzo, D/S verse dynamics. Decided to go with Alpha/Omega verse dynamics instead for something similar but something which I haven't yet written before.  There are no game spoilers.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Life, Five Hundred Florins

**Author's Note:**

  * For [R_Cookie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/R_Cookie/gifts).



> EDIT to add: for you lovely readers who have not played the game before or are not familiar with the franchise, you can watch the pregame shortfilm, [[Lineage](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=vcE8xJkK6t4)], which is gorgeous and which features Giovanni and Lorenzo (briefly).
> 
> I actually recently reread some of my own work and was wondering why I had this part Italian part English thing going on. Was it in the game? I forget. LOL. Not to mention many, many glaring historical inaccuracies ... so sorry... Anyway, for the sake of consistency...
> 
> Originally RetardedCookie asked for a Tony/Logan fic, and then she changed her mind, and then she asked for a longfic, so I guess you have her to thank for this convoluted saga of weirdness. I haven't written in this fandom for a very long time, and I think I'm rusty. This is D/S verse (or I suppose, more accurately, alpha/omega verse) in Renaissance Europe, with the usual historical inaccuracies. I'm definitely going to some sort of special hell.

1455  
I.

Lorenzo's sheltered world is shaken when he is but six years of age.

Later he will remember, vaguely, being taunted by Giuliano into chasing his brat of a brother over the Ponte Vecchio over some childish slight, their mother and minders genteelly despairing of their momentary lapse in maturity. He will remember, less so, slipping from the parapet and into the dark, filthy waters of the Arno beneath, remember a bubble of panic as his rich clothes drag him downwards despite his efforts, remember his last thought being a burst of irritation at how _pointless_ and early the end to his life would be-

He wakes on warm flagstones surrounded by a whispering crowd held back by Medici guardsmen, his mother kneeling and weeping and his brother scuffing his shoes, red-eyed and contrite, and beside him, grinning wolfishly and drenched, is a hooded stranger in now-ruined white and red vestments, a slender longsword buckled to his hip, wrists sheathed in silver-tooled bracers.

Much later Lorenzo will be appalled at his second momentary lapse of the day - all unguarded, he finds himself reaching instinctively out for the stranger, with a hoarse whisper, "Who are you?"

There's something more to the stranger that he can't put into words, like a pulse, a pull; he can feel this dimly, like a third eye or a sixth sense, and the stranger's smile falters, as though startled, and abruptly, he bows his head and hurries away, melting into the crowd despite his mother's protests and attempts to proffer monetary expressions of gratitude. Unsettled, Lorenzo allows himself to be coddled all the way home, shooting the occasional glances behind him, at narrow alleys or the shadows of red slate rooftops, the skin between his shoulder blades prickling.

He is alone in his bedroom, rather put out by the enforced rest and still stung by the lectures that he has had to endure from both his father and his tutor, sullenly doodling on a piece of scrap paper instead of applying himself to proper recuperation, when there's a light rap on his shuttered window.

Lorenzo's room is four floors up in his family's palazzo. Frowning, he tilts his head, then starts scribbling again, only to look up sharply when he hears a faint click, and the window swings silently open. Open-mouthed in astonishment, Lorenzo can only stare when the stranger pulls himself through, bold as you please, and it is only when the stranger grins impishly at him, as though he is somehow _proud_ of his outrageous invasion of private property, that Lorenzo remembers to try and shout for the guard.

The stranger moves like a viper; a leather glove clamps tight over Lorenzo's mouth. "Hush, child. I seek ten minutes of your time. After that, I will leave you be."

This close, Lorenzo finds himself eyeing a surprisingly complex contraption on the underside of the stranger's other wrist, a wicked little blade couched in a spring mechanism. "You're an assassin," Lorenzo frowns, when the stranger steps back. "Are you here for my life? You'll not make it out of the palazzo alive."

"If I intended to kill you, would it not have been easier to let you drown, child?"

True. Annoyed regardless, Lorenzo growls, "I, sir, am the _son_ of-"

"Yes, I know who you are," the assassin has the gall to interrupt, with a twitch to his mouth as though he finds Lorenzo's umbrage _amusing_. "But do you know _what_ you are?"

Lorenzo finds the question puzzling, but he'll be damned if he says so. Instead, he snaps, "I do not enjoy being patronised, assassin. If you have no business with me, leave. You saved my life this day and for that you have my thanks. Because of that, I will not call the guard."

"Surely you must know about the concept of _aspetti_ , lordling." Undeterred, the assassin slouches into the chair at Lorenzo's desk, his vestments dry, if potentially permanently discolored.

"What about it?"

Becchi has told them as part of their lessons that there are three Natures of people in the world, or three _aspetti_ , the alpha, the most common, the beta, and the rarest, the omega. The peasantry live out their lives without their Natures affecting them in great part, but for the ruling _famigli_ , the alpha are favored in questions of succession. His grandfather Cosimo is an alpha, his parents are betas, and Lorenzo had long thought the concept of _aspetti_ rather irrelevant; it is clear to him what he himself is, after all.

"Usually you reach a realisation when you are older," the assassin continues to parrot common theory, "But a near death experience can hasten that. Did you not feel anything, when you awoke?"

Lorenzo opens his mouth, to say something suitably cutting, but the assassin raises his chin, and beneath his hood his eyes are narrowed, solemn, and Lorenzo feels it again, that disconcerting pull, otherworldly and alien. "Yes," he concedes instead, with ill grace, twisting his fingers in his lap, and then curiosity prompts him to add, "Is that an alpha experience?"

The assassin sighs. "I am an alpha, child. You are not."

So he is a beta? Frowning, Lorenzo objects, "But alphas and betas feel no pull between each another..." his tone trails off, as his mind catches up with his words, then he flushes. "Oh. But that is impossible."

"And why is it impossible?"

"Because I intend to rule Firenze," Lorenzo's brow furrows further, "And that would be impossible for an omega... oh, you mock me, sir," Lorenzo hisses, indignant, when the assassin begins to laugh. "If this is your idea of a prank it is in _poor_ taste!"

"You are a most remarkable little princeling," the assassin grins, and even as Lorenzo mulls his words over suspiciously, combing context for ridicule, he adds, "I followed you to check on you, and to give you warning if my suspicions prove correct. This I have done. I will take my leave. Thank you for your time, milord de' Medici."

There is certainly a thread of wry humor in the assassin's tone and the sketch of his courtly bow, and Lorenzo purses his lips, horror mounting along with his wariness. If it was true, if word of his Nature reached his father's ears... "Wait. My mother did not manage to thank you for your aid. Perhaps some recompense is in order."

"You cannot buy me, child," the assassin, however, pauses in the middle of climbing back up onto his sill. "But I give you my word that none other will learn of this from me."

"Not even your master?" When the assassin tilts his head, as though questioning him, Lorenzo retorts, "Your clothes are old, but well made and that bracer is most unusual, you have an air of confidence and seem used to invading the privacy of the _nobili_. Clearly you belong to one of the Houses, likely one with ties to the Medici, since you saved my life. Is it Orsini? Whichever House it might be, the Medici is well placed to match and exceed your current terms of engagement. Nor will you need to fear repercussion."

"Ah," the assassin chuckles again, understanding, "I call no man master, lordling."

"Then you are a sellsword?" This seems possible - certainly not even the Orsini would tolerate the assassin's casual irreverence.

"No. Nor," the assassin adds, when Lorenzo opens his mouth, "Am I interested in employment. As flattering as that may be on such quick acquaintance. You will not see me again, nor will I betray your secret. It is not impossible for you to hide your Nature, child. Particularly now that you have years to learn how to do so."

Lorenzo gives up; he is still weakened and tired, his mind is whirling, and he feels as though he has been pushed off the paved road that his family has built towards his future into an onrushing stream, within which he cannot see his footing. "May I at least know the name of my savior?"

The assassin visibly hesitates, then he smiles. "Giovanni."

"Giovanni, _grazie mille_ for saving my life," Lorenzo declares, with stilted formality, calculating probabilities, and decides on a hook disguised as a carrot, "I owe you a debt. Should you ever need a favor from me, you have but to name it."

" _Prego_ , lordling, and _arrivederci_ ," Giovanni seems amused again, sketching another bow, then he steps out onto the sill and pulls himself up and out of sight. Lorenzo lets out the breath that he hasn't realized that he has been holding, and scrubs at his eyes with the palms of his hand. The situation, he thinks, is not beyond salvage.

1.0.

The money that Mario arrives with is not enough, but Giovanni merely nods when he peers into the coin pouch, not wanting to give his brother any cause for concern - or worse, _ideas_. The bribe that his work necessitated is a consequence of Giovanni's personal actions, after all; in pausing to save the child that had fallen into the Arno he lost the courier whom he had been tailing, and his informant's price had promptly ratcheted now that the Spaniard had grown wary of shadows.

Mario, however, has good instincts. "It is not enough?"

"It will suffice."

Mario snorts. They are on the outskirts of Firenze, off the road, and Mario and his horse are both dusty and tired. "There are ways. We could take on a temporary debt. With the Medici bank, perhaps..." Mario pauses when Giovanni has to stifle a cough. "What?"

"This will suffice." Giovanni had told Mario why he had lost the courier, but he had not told Mario precisely who he had fished out of the water. Rather guiltily, he adds, "The child I saved was one of the Medici."

"Ah." Mario's eyebrows rise in tandem. "That omega?"

"Yes."

"Hmph. Poor child." Mario purses his lips. "Those Italian merchant princes, they have no use for children with omega Natures. A girl could be married out for a strategic alliance, but a boy with a chance of succession? He will be exiled, I think, or he will disappear. It happens. Few outside the Order know that the Natures can be hidden with training."

Giovanni mulls this over with somewhat more regret than he thought he could muster, unsettled. It was clear that as prickly and spoiled as Lorenzo de' Medici was, he had considerable promise; even at his tender age he wielded a natural air of command. "It would be a waste. An omega has natural qualities that are useful in positions of power. Perception and empathy, foresight."

"Perhaps." Mario shrugs, never particularly concerned with matters outside the ambit of their secret war. "But an untrained one, or a weak-willed one, is subject to his alpha, and that would be an unacceptable weakness to the ruling _famigli_ , would it not. In any regard," he adds, when Giovanni straightens, "We have our own problems. If the Shield is in Firenze, then we must find it before the Spaniard does."

"I know." Giovanni slips the pouch into his vest. "I will find a way. Return to Monteriggioni. I will send word to you if I fail."

"Very well," Mario looks dubious, but he reaches over to shake Giovanni's hand firmly, clapping him on the shoulder. "Safety and peace then, brother. Good hunting."

"Good hunting," Giovanni echoes, watching as his brother mounts up and wheels his horse around.

It proves to be a frustrating afternoon. Giovanni cuts a few purses and gets a small loan from Paola, but it isn't quite enough. Getting a loan from a bank proves naturally difficult for someone with no immediate security or proof of identity, and Giovanni tries a few branches before giving up. As he circles out of the Vecchio branch of the Medici bank, however, thinking about options, something bounces off his head.

Flinching, Giovanni looks around sharply, then picks up the scrunched up scrap of paper. A quick glance upwards and around reveals Lorenzo, smirking at him from the top floor of the Medici branch that he had just walked out of. Giovanni pretends blank surprise, only for Lorenzo to roll his eyes at him and beckon before disappearing back into the room.

It isn't difficult to circle around and climb up to the roof, find an open window at the back of the building and slip in, but Giovanni curses himself and his fey curiosity at every step. This could be trouble that he does not need, and in his current set of nondescript clothes he has only the bracer hidden under his sleeve as a weapon. If Lorenzo has guardsmen waiting in ambush, it could go poorly for him.

The sole open window, however, opens into a small and empty office, within which Lorenzo is already waiting, seated primly at an antique desk, toying with a quill too large for his fingers, a blank ledger book before him, a perfect picture of a child playing at being a bookkeeper, and Giovanni carefully hides his grin.

"How did you guess that it was me?" Subterfuge would be trite at this point.

"I never guess, I knew that it was you. You can change your clothes but you cannot change your gait," Lorenzo scoffs. "What were you doing in my bank?"

"It is not your bank yet," Giovanni points out, and now he can't help but grin when Lorenzo pouts at him, irked at the reminder. "What do people do in banks, lordling?"

"You need money?" Lorenzo steeples his little fingers together, openly calculating, then he scowls when Giovanni has to stifle a laugh.

"Everyone needs money, _Altezza_."

"I have told you that I owe you a favor. Whatever you need-"

Giovanni shakes his head, quick to interject. "I saw a child drowning in the Arno. Even had you been a pauper's son I would have saved you. I expect no recompense, and it is a poor man who would accept any."

Lorenzo narrows his eyes, clearly displeased at the interruption. "Perhaps an arrangement, instead. I will _lend_ you the money that you need. You will repay me when you are able. In lieu of interest, you will teach me about the _aspetti_. My tutor," Lorenzo adds, with some degree of aspersion, "Assures me that the Natures cannot be changed or controlled, and I cannot ask him further questions without arousing suspicion. The books in the palazzo library are of the same opinion, but you did not seem to be lying to me when you said that this could be controlled."

Certainly the child did not seem to act like an omega; or perhaps the realization of his Nature was as yet incomplete. He was, after all, not yet mature. "If you make the habit of accepting bad loans with no security your family's bank will not fare well in the future, lordling."

"I intend to be a statesman, not a banker," Lorenzo retorts acerbically. "A statesman must make gambles. Well?"

"I need," Giovanni observes, "Five hundred florins." He actually needs half of that, with his current funds available, but he is curious to see what Lorenzo's reaction would be to such a substantial sum.

"Five hundred, then." Lorenzo repeats, his expression unchanging as he slips off the heavy chair. "Wait here."

"How are you going to explain this to your family?"

Lorenzo snorts, one small hand poised over the doorknob. "I will tell them that I intend to buy an eagle. Sit."

The child returns moments later with a heavy bag of coin that he tosses over to Giovanni. "There. Do you want to count it?"

"I trust you," Giovanni decides, weighing the bag briefly before tucking it away. "Thank you, _Altezza_. I will repay you."

"And?"

"I will forward some books to your office from my library," Giovanni allows. Monteriggioni has a few books on Natures, many of them journals from assassins past. He would have to vet their contents. "And answer your questions. But in the meantime, I have urgent business to attend to."

Lorenzo looks disappointed for a moment before he controls himself. " _Bene_. You may take your leave."

" _Grazie mille, Altezza._ " The child's haughty airs are thoroughly amusing.

"I hope," Lorenzo seems to be trying for sternness, now standing beside the desk with his palm pressed flat to its surface, "That you will not be wasting my time or my coin."

The faint thread of anxious caution in Lorenzo's otherwise controlled tone makes Giovanni draw pause just as he nearly pulls himself up onto the sill, and he circles back to the lordling, extending his hand, palm up. Lorenzo hesitates for a moment before slipping his small palm into Giovanni's grasp, the heavy Medici ring a little too big for his fingers. Holding Lorenzo's gaze evenly, Giovanni lowers his head to kiss the ring.

"I will return to you," he promises, and as Lorenzo's eyes darken, Giovanni feels the odd tug on the edges of his consciousness, like a pull, faint but soul-deep, an untrained omega's empathy, and he draws back quickly.

Lorenzo is a _child_ , and one who is unlikely to last very long in Florentine politics because of his Nature. Even as Giovanni contemplates this, he feels the same unsettled sensation as before, when he was speaking with Mario, and he curls his fingers into his palms, finally recognising misplaced protectiveness for what it was. It isn't an uncommon feeling for alphas in the proximity of unclaimed omegas, but in this situation it's both highly inappropriate and thoroughly unnecessary.

Thankfully, Lorenzo was in the process of climbing back onto his chair, and doesn't seem to have noticed Giovanni's distraction. " _Arrivederci_ , then, assassin."

" _Arrivederci_ ," Giovanni echoes, and climbs out of the window before his tongue betrays him.

1459  
II.

Giovanni has been fussing over him for a week, ever since Lorenzo mentioned casually that the heir to the Duchy of Milano would be visiting Firenze and that Lorenzo would be attending the parade in his honor, as befit a potential heir to the Medici House. Galeazzo Maria Sforza is only five years his senior, but the young Lord has already earned himself a thoroughly infamous reputation where his unsavory appetites were concerned.

"Your concerns about his character are irrelevant," Lorenzo's patience with Giovanni's interference finally wears thin.

The hour is growing late and Becchi has retired for the day; his siblings are all excitably involving themselves with the upcoming festivities. Lorenzo understands better than the rest of them that suggestions on the color of buntings and advice on the variety of circus performers was all very well, but their grandfather Cosimo would be looking not for a child's advice but for a heir's. He has a route of the parade colored onto a map stretched over his desk, and he has been studying it for potential security problems. The Sforza family has many enemies.

"I would not think so, _Altezza_." Giovanni's tone is reproving.

"What is _relevant_ ," Lorenzo stresses, tapping at the map, "Is that the parade proceeds without an assassination or something equally embarrassing to the Medici, and more importantly, that the Duke of Milano reaffirms his commitment to his alliance with the Medici."

"Or affirms a commitment to an alliance with you?" Giovanni enquiries, his tone neutral but his eyes narrowed to slits under his cowl.

Lorenzo sucks in a deep breath and counts to five for calm. Giovanni's counsel has been invaluable over the years, the rather esoteric books from his private library even more so. Giovanni's shadowy Order seems convinced that the Natures derive from three incomplete forms of existence, with betas possessing the most balanced of the Natures, able to subsist by themselves with little interference from the 'empathy' of an alpha or an omega. The claim-bond between an alpha and an omega completes a form of 'complete' existence, tied together by a merged empathy.

Lorenzo has little interest in mythos save where it can be practically applied, and what he understands and has practiced from the books is the suppression of an omega's enhanced empathy. His natural personality is already - so Giovanni tells him, if wryly - well suited for pretence as an alpha, or a charismatic beta. His eventual arranged marriage will most likely be to a beta or another omega: the Medici are careful with the strings of their power. A problem that seemed near overwhelming when he was six years of age now seems easily manageable, and for that he has Giovanni to thank.

With that in mind, Lorenzo is carefully patient when he replies, calmly, "It would be advantageous. My grandfather is growing frail, and my father will inherit soon. After that, the line of succession has not yet been decided." He doesn't add that the so-called golden boy, his brother Giuliano, is currently his parents' favorite. With any luck, his father will live long enough for Lorenzo to change his mind.

"You are _ten_ years of age," Giovanni mutters, clearly intent on being disagreeable, pacing irritably before the table like a coiled predator, and Lorenzo sighs harshly.

"And your point, Giovanni?"

"Galeazzo is an alpha. That much is well known."

Lorenzo rolls his eyes. Giovanni had been patronizingly amused at him during the first year of their acquaintance before Lorenzo had managed to talk him into working for the Medici; after that, he tended to swing between his usual amusement and an equally exasperating protectiveness. If Giovanni had not already proved his worth as an assassin, a thief and a spy many times over, Lorenzo would long have tried to get rid of him. After all, no one else knows his secret, and Giovanni remains the sole and dangerous loose end to Lorenzo's inborn weakness.

"Galeazzo's tastes run towards any women unfortunate enough to catch his roving eye. And I have met alphas before."

Giovanni grumbles something undoubtedly inappropriate under his breath, then he adds, stiffly, "You could still bond."

"I know how to be careful, thanks to you. And besides, I am still very young yet, for something of that nature," Irritated, Lorenzo glowers at the assassin. "You do not see me throwing myself at you, do you?"

Giovanni grimaces, but annoyingly enough, he does not back down. "If you build an alliance with this Sforza lordling, it is not inconceivable in the future."

"Marriage is both a political weapon and a necessity for succession," Lorenzo scowls. "My father or my mother will arrange a marriage for me to one of our standing allies. The Orsini family, likely."

"A bond can still legally exist outside of a binding marriage. So you can marry your Orsini woman and still have an _aspetti_ bond with an alpha. It is not uncommon, even in Italia, and may even be politically expedient. Milano is rival to Firenze."

"Assuming that my parents become aware of my situation." Lorenzo lowers his voice, but he shoots the closed door a quick, habitual glance. "Which they will not. I told you that I intend to inherit Firenze. Father will not consider an omega for a heir."

Giovanni sweeps him with a skeptical glance, and Lorenzo balls his fists and forces himself to meet it, unflinching and defiant, and eventually, Giovanni is the one to drop his eyes, towards the map, exhaling. "By your will, _Altezza_ , I hope so."

"Good. Now, if you have finished wasting my time, what do you actually have for me today?"

"The word on the street is that the Duke of Savoy has sent men to Firenze."

"Ludovico? Tch." Lorenzo taps absently at his lips. It would suit the Duke of Savoy to foment unrest between his traditional enemy, Milano, and its allies. "I need proof. There is a week to the parade. Surely any intelligent attempt would have required at least a few months' planning. Men. Weapons. Surely there will be a paper trail."

"I have a few leads." Giovanni nods, though he resumes his restless pacing, "But nothing conclusive."

"So instead of following your leads you choose instead to harp at me like an old woman."

"Patience, _Altezza_. I have friends following the leads for me," Giovanni is as always, utterly unconcerned at the bite of his tongue. "I am awaiting their response."

"Your friends the thieves and beggars," Lorenzo deduces, with a little distaste. He knows and understands the logic of such a network, but he cannot understand how Giovanni can trust them.

"Perhaps." Giovanni smiles complacently for a moment before he sobers. "Watch yourself with Galeazzo, milord."

"I am guarded against everyone." It takes conscious effort not to say this sullenly. Lorenzo cannot wait until he comes of age. Perhaps the rest of the world would stop being so condescending.

"That is unfortunate," Giovanni murmurs, but before Lorenzo voices his biting retort, the assassin reaches over to point at the Ponte Vecchio. "Here, and here. If I were the Duke of Savoy's assassins, I would want to strike there. The river makes for an easy getaway, as the water will be choked with gondolas."

2.0

Despite Giovanni's reservations the parade proceeds like clockwork. Following the parade by stealing from steeples to rooftops, Giovanni supposes that his original concerns were born of paranoia; as befit an honored guest Galeazzo is sequestered with Piero and Cosimo de' Medici during the course of the parade and not with the various young Medici scions.

Giovanni manages to slip into the palazzo for the festivities, disguised as a courier, but he is unable to find a way to sneak into the dining hall, and the mezzanines overlooking the hall are tightly patrolled, the schedules drafted by Giovanni himself. Annoyed, he settles for skulking around the corridors, retiring only when the guests begin to disperse.

Mario had long accused him of being unnecessarily distracted by Firenze, particularly since the Shield now seems to be out of their reach. Giovanni consoles himself with the knowledge that the Shield appears lost, rather than in the hands on the Templar, but he is uncomfortably aware that his time spent getting rich with Medici florins while encouraging the dangerous pretentions of a child would be far better spent advancing plans against his family's ancient enemies.

Still, there is _something_ about Lorenzo, and it is not his Nature; Giovanni has met omegas before, rare as they are, and has not felt drawn to them. Assassins learn how to guard their Natures, whatever they are born with - it is a necessity, or the pull between compatible Natures might betray them no matter how lightly they walk the shadows.

He suspects, sometimes, that even were Lorenzo another alpha, or a beta, Giovanni would still have been so easily drawn into the child's orbit; for all his caustic tongue when he feels himself slighted, for all of his guardedness and his occasional flashes of temper, being around Lorenzo feels _right_ , as though there is something subtly missing all of his life and he has only recently found it. This unnerves Giovanni, and he hides it in jibes and in a blanket of concern that Lorenzo clearly finds irritatingly stifling.

Lorenzo merely scowls at him when the boy finally returns to his chambers and finds Giovanni slouched in a chair at the window, resting his feet, but he says nothing as he closes the doors, waiting until Giovanni can no longer hear the steps of his escort. At Giovanni's nod, Lorenzo stalks over to his desk, rolling up the map, his hands jerky in displeasure.

"Is there a problem, milord?" Idly, Giovanni wonders what he would do if Lorenzo instructs him to put a blade in Galeazzo's back, and is a little disconcerted to find himself looking forward to it. The heir to the Duchy of Milano is merely fifteen, but the monster within him is already unchecked. And if he had hurt Lorenzo in any way-

"The parade was fine. The festivities were fine." Lorenzo growls, apparently oblivious to the darkening storm gathering over Giovanni's mood, tugging the gloves off his hands and dumping them on the desk. "My grandfather and father refuse to believe that I had anything to do with it!"

"There were those letters." Giovanni arches his eyebrows, relaxing. He and his contacts had carefully foiled a Savoy plan to wire up the Vecchio with explosives, all under Lorenzo's surprisingly astute commands.

"Tch." Lorenzo's eyes narrow dangerously. "Perhaps it was a miscalculation to have involved the local guardsmen. In the absence of evidence - seeing as those explosives were dropped into the Arno - grandfather refused to think more of it. After all, the letters bear no seals or signatures. A waste of time," Lorenzo declares, throwing up his hands, and Giovanni begins to chuckle.

"Hardly a waste of time, _Altezza_. If the plan had been successful the Ponte Vecchio could have blown up, with you atop it."

"Oh, yes, well of course," Lorenzo concedes, with ill grace. "There will be other opportunities, I suppose..." He pauses when Giovanni raises a palm, rolling silently to his feet; he can hear men approaching, one set of soft feet, four sets of armored tread. He raises one palm up, fingers spread, and Lorenzo narrows his eyes. A knock sounds on the door, soft and urgent, and Lorenzo glances searchingly at Giovanni, then at the window. Giovanni nods. If assassins have somehow gotten past the considerable Medici guard presence, Giovanni can easily spirit Lorenzo away to safety over the rooftops.

"Lorenzo?" Lorenzo's eyes widen slightly - the firm, soft tone is none other than Cosimo de' Medici's. With an urgent gesture at Giovanni, he steps towards the door only when Giovanni has hauled himself out of the window, balancing himself on the lattice of the hanging wall garden and the sill, out of sight but still within reach. He hears the door open, and a set of footsteps shuffle in, then the door closes. The guards were shut out, then.

" _Nonno mio,_ " Lorenzo begins by greeting his grandfather. "The hour is late."

"So it is." Cosimo's voice is unbroken by age, steady and steely. The family resemblance is immediate. "What did you do to the Duke of Savoy's men, Lorenzo?"

"Ah," Lorenzo sounds startled for only a moment. "They were disposed of. They would not surrender."

"Tch." Giovanni grins in the dark, imagining Lorenzo's expression, faced with his grandfather's brutally blunt assessment of his performance. "The execution was clumsy, but the results were adequate, and you are still quite young. You will learn. My spies did learn of the Duke of Savoy's men, but the leads seemed abruptly severed. Your work, I presume. Whose pawns did you use, child? Your father was as surprised as I."

"My own." Lorenzo seemed to be bristling.

"Yours? You are ten years of age, Lorenzo. Did you just pay someone in the marketplace?"

Surprisingly - or not - Lorenzo's response is studiedly graceful. "I have my sources. Perhaps you will have an opportunity to observe their work again, _nonno mio_."

"Hm." There is a short, pointed silence, then Cosimo's voice gentles a fraction. "Surprise me again then, child. Good work. But next time, do not declare your findings in the middle of my office while the doors are yet open. This aspect of the game of thrones is necessarily couched in secrecy, not brayed about for all to hear. Understand?"

"I understand and accept your guidance. _Grazie mille, il Vecchio_."

"When you grow into your own," Cosimo concludes, his voice drifting, as though he is circling back to the door, "I think that you will be a magnificent successor to the Medici. _Buona sera_ , Lorenzo."

Giovanni waits, listening to the shifting steps of the guards floors below him, until Lorenzo murmurs, "Giovanni."

"Aye, _Altezza_." Giovanni hauls himself back into the room, stretching luxuriously. " _Il Magnifico_ , hm?"

Lorenzo is still young enough that he is still trying - and failing - to hide his pleasure at his grandfather's praise with a hasty scowl. "We have work yet. You heard him. This thief of yours, your friend, you said his name was 'La Volpe'. I want to meet him."

Giovanni raises his eyebrows, a little surprised. "Your disdain for his profession may wound his feelings." He isn't entirely sure how La Volpe would react to Lorenzo. The Immortal has little patience for anything that doesn't involve the Creed or thievery, and had only been persuaded to help Giovanni with the Duke of Savoy after a thorough session of bribery, cajoling, flattery and logic. La Volpe is a very old man, and old men enjoy peace; the Medici family is instrumental to that, at least where Firenze is concerned. Quite presumably, however, if La Volpe was to meet Lorenzo in person, matters will end in tears.

"I can be charming if I want to be, obviously."

"So you show only your prickly true nature before me," Giovanni notes facetiously, with a playful grin, and Lorenzo stiffens instead of rolling his eyes; he looks away, down at his shoes, then he seems to force himself to raise his chin, folding his arms.

"I have to trust you," Lorenzo admits, and then leavens the concession with a grudging, "I suppose I have no choice."

It is as ungracious a confession as Giovanni has ever heard, but he smiles as warmly as he can, leaning forward to take Lorenzo's proffered wrist to kiss his ring. "You will never regret your trust in me, _Altezza_."

"Well," Lorenzo's poise falters only for a fraction, his dark eyes vulnerable, then it shutters away. "See that I do not."

1465  
III.

The wedding of Ippolita Sforza to Alfonso of Aragon, the Duke of Napoli, is an unnecessarily lavish occasion, in Lorenzo's opinion, but at least the Duke of Milano has seen fit to invite seemingly every Italian family of remote importance, some of which might not even be harboring plots of Galeazzo's demise. Lorenzo is in his element, the proud representative of the Medici family to the event, renewing ties with allies and making careful overtures to neutral families while trying to evade Giacomo Orsini's blithe attempts to attach Lorenzo to his side like an accessory.

It is no secret that Lorenzo's mother, the Lady Lucrezia Tornabuoni, is looking to marry off her sons to noble-born wives, and Giacomo has an eligible tigress of a daughter. Lorenzo supposes that a match to the Orsini family would be sound, and he has heard that Clarice is conventionally beautiful, but stories of her temper and her inflexible nature abound, and he is not looking forward to matrimony in the least.

Galeazzo materializes at his elbow just as Lorenzo is conducting a carefully neutral conversation with Girolamo Riario, a nephew of Pope Sixtus IV, circling around Riario's ambitions for Forlì. "Ah, Lorenzo. Are you enjoying the party?"

Lorenzo stifles his annoyance at the interruption, even as Riario's expression freezes politely. Girolamo has long had ambitions for a political alliance with Milano. "Duce. It is a fine party."

"Finer than the parade in Firenze," Galeazzo grins, self-important and brash, and Lorenzo inclines his head.

"On that point I must agree with you, Duce."

"Oh, we do not need to be so formal here. Your family and mine are friends." Galeazzo goes as far as to clap him on the shoulder, ignoring how Lorenzo tenses and automatically checks the threads of his self control; Galeazzo's touch feels hot, even over the layers of his fine robes.

Galeazzo frowns slightly, his nostrils flaring, even as Riario blinks, puzzled, and Lorenzo grits his teeth, even as he schools his expression. "I thought to err on the side of respect. You are, after all, my elder."

"By only a sprinkle of years," Galeazzo murmurs, and he doesn't drop his hand, and Lorenzo stifles his panic through only a supreme exercise of all of his self control. Just as he begins to wonder whether it would be politic to brush Galeazzo off, he is suddenly, of all people, abruptly saved by the Orsini.

"Lorenzo, there you are." Giacomo Orsini sweeps into view, not so much threading through the crowds of courtiers and well-wishers as bulling his way through it, trailing a handful of men behind in his wake, all of whom were beginning to look a little worse for drink. "I thought perhaps you would like to meet some friends of my family. Old friends."

"I am always interested in making friends," Lorenzo smiles and breathes an inward sigh of relief as Galeazzo's palm drops, turning to shake hands with what turns out to be a trio of minor bankers. Galeazzo watches him oddly, but is soon dragged away into the festivities by his wife, the Lady Bona. Unnerved, Lorenzo decides not to ply fate and spends the rest of the party perhaps inadvisably attached to Giacomo's side. His father would be displeased.

Later, when alone in the lavish chambers of the small palazzo that the Medici possess in Milano, Lorenzo washes his face several times in cold water. His hands are shaking, and he frowns at them, willing them to stop, and then he whirls with an oath and nearly upends the ceramic bowl of water from the side table when Giovanni clears his throat politely behind him.

" _Altezza_?" Giovanni asks, concerned, and Lorenzo bites out a low oath and rubs his face dry with a towel.

"What are you doing in Milano?" Giovanni has been missing for almost a month, if with prior warning. The assassin has other cares, remarkably enough, and he is always close-mouthed on his own secrets, though he assiduously advises Lorenzo whenever he has to go on leaves of absence.

"Business," Giovanni notes, in the vague way he does whenever referring to his 'Creed'. "It was close by. And I heard that you would be attending the wedding. How was the party?"

Lorenzo breathes out, fingers curled around the edges of the side table, silent until Giovanni circles into view, wearing a frown. His vestments are gray with dust and travel dirt, and he smells somewhat unpleasantly of horses, and as he asks, again, more softly, " _Altezza,_ " Lorenzo has to bite down on his lower lip and suppress a shiver.

"I want to try something." Lorenzo decides, because he has trusted Giovanni for this long, because Lorenzo's suspicions on exactly _what_ is wrong are beginning to throw him off balance, and because Lorenzo has never run away from a problem in his life. "Stay still."

" _Va bene,_ " Giovanni inclines his head, then he sucks in a sharp intake of breath as Lorenzo grabs his elbow. The cloth is finely woven but thin, and through it he can feel the hard lines of muscle corded over Giovanni's arm, and the assassin feels _hot_ , almost feverish. A flush climbs into Giovanni's cheeks, faint but visible, his pupils growing dark and wide, and quickly, Lorenzo snatches his hand away, backpedaling so quickly that he stumbles against the side table.

"What is wrong with me?" Lorenzo demands, mortified to hear a thread of fear in his voice.

Giovanni has his hands up, palms up as though in a gesture of surrender, and his voice is pitched low, carefully soothing. "Lorenzo, calm down."

"I _am_ calm!" Lorenzo seethes, then he spits, "Stay where you are."

Giovanni stops immediately. "All right. I've stopped."

" _Do not patronize me!_ " Lorenzo breathes in, deep, forcing control. Thankfully, the walls and the doors are thick, and none of the posted guard knock on the door to check on his well-being. When he feels a little less like crawling out of his skin, Lorenzo mutters, steadily, "This is an omega's madness, is it not?"

"'Madness' would not have been my choice of words," Giovanni seems to be selecting diction with care. "Heat is a natural process. It is not unknown for it to be early."

Lorenzo groans. "I thought that I could control it. Can't I?"

"It is possible to learn to. You can learn to endure it."

"All right." Lorenzo exhales, frustrated. He's beginning to sweat, and his palms feel clammy, and he feels as though he's all but vibrating with energy. Literature informs him that the first time tends to be brief, to be less intense, but this feverish restlessness is driving him to distraction, and he can't imagine what it might be like for it to be _worse_. "I need to go back to Firenze. Perhaps if I feign illness... but no, Galeazzo will insist on treating me here... his doctor may find out... an urgent missive, then, but my parents..."

"Let me think of something," Giovanni assures Lorenzo soothingly. "Try to rest in the meantime."

"I... yes." Lorenzo tries to think, but his mind seems fogged and easily distracted. " _Bene._ " He curls up in the plush bed, under the sheets, sweating and shaking even as he squeezes his eyes shut, listening to the faint rasp at the sill that marks Giovanni's exit, and it takes all of his willpower to calm his mind enough to fall into a fitful doze. He's barely conscious, drifting in and out of sleep, when the bed indents, an indeterminate amount of time later, and he thinks he hears Giovanni's voice, saying something that he can't quite make out, but he can smell him, and this time it seems less unpleasant, all visceral, soothing layers. He sleeps to the ghost of fingers brushing over the crown of his hair.

3.0

Lorenzo's 'madness' subsides in full by the time they return to Firenze, and although the boy appears outwardly calm, Giovanni has had a long enough association with Lorenzo to recognise how shaken he is as he excuses himself, citing weariness, immediately after reporting to his father. Giovanni decides reluctantly to stay away; Lorenzo needs time, and he did seem exhausted during the long journey home, without even a word of thanks for the situation that Giovanni had engineered, an apparent security breach via the mass poisoning of the Milanese ducal barracks. The poison was non-fatal, if embarrassing to the Sforza, but Giovanni has no qualms in that regard.

La Volpe has an uncanny knack of appearing at places just as Giovanni decides to visit them, and as Giovanni scales a church steeple to a pigeon coop, he is rather unsurprised to find the Immortal perched on the adjoining roof, cross-legged. "Ah, young Giovanni."

"Everyone is young to you, Immortal," Giovanni points out dryly, checking the coop for messages form Monteriggioni, feeding the pigeons, and then settling down on the roof beside La Volpe. "How were things in Firenze?"

"Passable." La Volpe eyes him, enigmatic. "That little brat-princeling of yours is unbearable when you are not around. He thinks that he can give me orders if he pays me. Pah. This wedding in Milano that he was spirited off to was much-needed. My patience is not infinite."

"What did he want you to do now?" Giovanni asks, amused. He isn't entirely sure why Lorenzo remains convinced, despite all evidence, that acquiring La Volpe's loyalty would only be a matter of time and florins. Money is mostly irrelevant to a master thief who lives outside Time itself, after all.

La Volpe wrinkles his nose. "Espionage and thievery. It was mundane. I told him so, but he can be quite a pest. He is an omega, did you know? Perhaps he will not live very long."

"How did _you_ know that?" Giovanni is careful to keep his tone unchanging, but La Volpe eyes him again, meditatively this time, then he leans back, his palms pressed to the warm slate of the roof.

"I know. But," La Volpe added, as Giovanni debated briefly whether or not to ask why, "I think that people who are not me will not know. I have lived a very long time. I know what to look for."

"There are none other as you in the whole of this world, I think." Giovanni settles for flattery.

La Volpe is clearly unimpressed, tilting his head such that his hood hides his startlingly violet eyes. "Hmph. You belong to the Creed, Giovanni. Not to some little brat-princeling."

"He will be a useful ally."

La Volpe, unlike Mario, does not concede the point. "He is a distraction. And sooner or later he will go into heat, and then there will be no hiding it."

"There are drugs," Giovanni ventures, having read as much in the journals. "Some of the most prominent Assassins of us all were omegas."

"Oh, well, if you want to regurgitate Creed secrets to preserve an unrelated brat-princeling's shaky hold on an irrelevant power," La Volpe scowls, "Then by all means."

"I will take responsibility if there are any problems."

La Volpe snorts, drumming his elegant fingers on the slate of the roof beside him, thinking, then he warns, "Well then, you should know that after a while, the drugs become less effective. They are not meant to replace a bond, not for an omega. Alphas and betas can live without the bond, but omegas need it. That is the balance, the weight on the scales. Understanding comes with a price."

"You are referring to al-Sayf's theories." Malik al-Sayf had become Maestro of the Assassin commune in Masyaf, and was accomplished as a tactician and a swordsman; less well known were his skills as a philosopher and an apothecary - it was he who had helped the legendary Altaїr ibn La-Ahad perfect the _metodi_ with which any Assassin could learn to control their Natures. Omegas had a heightened understanding of people that tended to make them retiring or benign beings, gentle and sensitive.

Not Lorenzo. He possesses the instinctive ability to predict and place a person's thoughts and actions - Giovanni has seen this at work; Lorenzo knows instinctively what to say, when to say it, without even seemingly being aware or applying very much thought at all, and people are drawn to trust him. Lorenzo has an omega's abilities, but none of an omega's usual personality; instead, he is ruthlessly ambitious. Without the 'madness', it is quite possible that Lorenzo could survive to be a very successful ruler indeed, with his secret intact.

La Volpe grumbles to himself, but he shrugs. "Perhaps. You of the Auditore like to complicate things. It is a most disagreeable trait."

"The mixture for the drugs," Giovanni prompts, and when La Volpe does not immediately respond, he cajoles, "Neither my brother nor I are apothecaries, and some of the ingredients seem esoteric. I think that you will be the only person I know who can acquire them safely."

"The drugs can be habit-forming," La Volpe notes mulishly, though he seems to finally allow himself to be flattered. "As I have said, Altaїr and Malik did not intend for them to take the place of an _aspetti_ bond, merely to suppress the effects of Nature during long missions."

"They will be used responsibly, I assure you."

"Fine. But I gather from how you are pestering me for them _now_ that the cycles have already begun. He is very young and that trigger when he nearly drowned will likely still affect him. I give him a year, perhaps two."

"A year to?"

"To need to work things out with an alpha," La Volpe drawls. "Do keep up, young man."

Giovanni manages to suppress the shudder, and he looks down at the street to hide his eyes and the flush to his cheeks. He knows - he _knows_ that he does not like that idea at all. The knowledge curls within him, cold and grim. "This is new to me. I thought that the _metodi_ could stave the impulses off forever."

"Not forever. And certainly not for a child who is not of the two worlds," La Volpe observes, eyeing him again, this time solemnly. "You should stay away from him if you do not want... accidents."

"I've studied the _metodi_ myself. And met others like he to no effect. Alphas are not bound by instinct."

"Hn." La Volpe's gaze drifts up, shaded by his cowl, to watch the clouds. "I wonder."

1466  
IV.

The court of Napoli is busy this season with petitions, and Ferdinand of Aragon seems distracted. Castile is rife with unrest over the succession of King Enrique IV and his ever fractious and seemingly doomed attempts to marry off his sister Isabel in order to cement alliances and remove his sister from Castillan affairs. Ferdinand is, so Father has told Lorenzo, the first in a long line of failed arranged marriage attempts, and perhaps he will be the last. Isabel is interested in power, and Piero de' Medici has heard mention that Ferdinand might consider a match with a prenuptial that details an equal share of the crown.

Since the possible couple are second cousins, however, they would need a Papal Bull to marry; unlovely as the situation is it concerns Firenze only obliquely. His father has sent him to Napoli ostensibly by way of providing him with an easy diplomatic debut, as the heir-apparent to power in Firenze. Napoli is friendly to Firenze, at present, due to their shared ties with Milano - to a casual observer this is an easy task, set for a youth in the process of being groomed for the throne.

What Piero does not voice - and does not need to - is that he is here to analyse the possibility of a marriage, both politically and in the eyes of the Holy See. He has set Giovanni to investigate Ferdinand's offices and sent one of La Volpe's agents to Castile; here, he draws Ferdinand into oblique conversation about the ambitions of Castile's nobility and the rebellion. Ferdinand seems a little bored by the topic - perhaps the possible betrothal is the work of another hand, his father's, mayhap, until Lorenzo mentions Roma.

"The grant of a Papal Bull is not impossible," Ferdinand notes, rather self-importantly, and the courtiers and nobles gathered around them twitter and murmur amongst themselves. "As you would imagine, Lorenzo."

"Of course." Lorenzo is careful to pretend to be impressed, and Ferdinand beckons him to follow as they circle through the Napoli court, being greeted and interrupted by various minor noblemen and their perfumed wives, until they reach a circle of men in a corner, heads bent in low, earnest discussion.

Lorenzo's Spanish is accented but fluent, and he can tell that these men are mostly natives to Spain. Two are dressed gaudily, like courtiers, their fat fingers dripping rings and their cushioned shoulders draped with gold chains of office; one is thin and tall, looking uncomfortable in a suit of ceremonial armor, buffed and embossed in silver, and the last is a large bear of a man, his age indeterminable, his jowls running into dissolution, dressed in a dark cowl over a rich doublet and vest, so maroon as almost to be black, his fingers adorned with gold and emeralds. An arresting, steely stare sweeps Lorenzo briefly over before resting on Ferdinand.

" _Principe_ Ferdinand. You have a most enlightened choice of allies."

"Lorenzo, this is _Maestro_ Rodrigo Borgia, the Vice-Chancellor of the Holy Church of Roma. _Maestro_ , may I introduce you to Lorenzo de' Medici."

"It is always an honor to meet a representative of the Holy See." Lorenzo smiles, executing a perfunctory bow. Rodrigo speaks with the air of an Emperor and his eyes are far too cruel for one called to the priesthood; a politician seeking a path to power which is not entirely restricted by the vagaries of birth, Lorenzo senses. In Rodrigo's cold, grim stare Lorenzo deduces ambition and ruthlessness both.

"And it is always a pleasure to meet one of the Medici," Rodrigo observes in his flawless Italian, his tone laced with an irony that Lorenzo cannot not immediately divine. "Ever a friend of the Holy See."

Ah. Conscious that he is being carefully watched, Lorenzo preserves his smile. "Of course. We of the Medici preserve a healthy respect for the Vatican."

"You of the banking Houses have a respect born of necessity," Rodrigo notes, "And not of piety."

Judging from how Ferdinand does not immediately protest Rodrigo's tone, Lorenzo supposes that he is not only being watched - he is being _tested_. "A respect born of necessity can bear immediate fruit, _Maestro_. One born of piety, on the other hand is less certain, and can be shaken. My father and I will however be pleased to discuss the terms of our respect to the satisfaction of the Holy See."

Rodrigo laughs; it is a constructed sound, hearty but measured, and Lorenzo has to fight not to flinch as the Vice-Chancellor claps him on the shoulder with one of his paws. "You see, Ascanio. The worshippers of Mammon, such silver tongues they have, and at such a youthful age."

"The Vice-Chancellor," Ferdinand seems to relax a fraction, "Has indicated that he may be willing to orchestrate the extension of a little Papal favor in the direction of Napoli, should it be necessary."

"The _Principe_ accords me an undeserved distinction," Rodrigo's tone is polite but his hooded stare flicks between Lorenzo, Ferdinand and the one named Ascanio in quick succession. That a Vice-Chancellor can materialize a Papal Bull with apparent confidence is news to Lorenzo. Rodrigo will be one to watch. " _Altezza_ Lorenzo, perhaps we should indeed have a... discussion, in due course."

Rodrigo's direct stare is beginning to make Lorenzo feel uncomfortable, but he forces himself to hold it. "Then I remain at your disposal, _Maestro_."

Later, Lorenzo will regret saying that; now, he observes only a gleam of the depth of Rodrigo's greed and his naked ambition before the Vice-Chancellor dips his head in curt acknowledgment.

4.0.

The security in the sprawling estate of the _principe_ of Napoli is lax, and Giovanni steals his way in and out of the offices with ease. His Spanish is extremely rusty, and he rather hopes that whatever he has copied onto paper is relevant; after all, he found the letter hidden in a safe behind a rather ingenious double lock facility that had taken him half an hour to pick. Hopefully it is not some sort of royal prank for thieves. His young _padrone_ has a poor sense of humor where failure is concerned.

Lorenzo is not in his assigned quarters, nor in the ebbing Court, and it takes an hour of futile searching before Giovanni finally locates him in the vast gardens, Lorenzo is standing beside a stone fountain, his back to Giovanni, speaking quietly with a corpulent man cowled in black and deep red. Lorenzo's hands are tightly clasped behind his back, the nails of his fingers digging into his palms, the only indicator of his tension; warily, Giovanni approaches on silent feet, angling to pounce on the stranger if necessary, hidden behind a line of groomed, tall shrubs.

The moment he is close enough to overhear the conversation, Giovanni has to clench his teeth tightly to stifle his growl. Lorenzo and the stranger are conversing in Spanish, his master accented, the stranger fluent, but whoever the stranger is, his words are layered in a tone that would be obvious only to a receptive omega - or to another alpha. That Lorenzo has not succumbed speaks highly of La Volpe's concoctions, or Lorenzo's strength of will, or both; for a moment Giovanni almost steps out of hiding and puts his blade through the stranger's neck - he is so _furious_ that blood seems to roar in his ears.

Only logic and the knowledge of Lorenzo's certain displeasure were Giovanni to take the life of someone when not commanded stays his blade; a moment later, he is calm enough to remember the tenets of his Creed, and he exhales, softly, thinking. He is not dressed in his assassin whites but cowled in drab grays, like a common courier, and he is not visibly armed. Interrupt with a message, perhaps, and chance Lorenzo's temper-

Lorenzo speaks a string of Spanish, then switches to Italian so quickly that Giovanni nearly does not register it. "Come out, Giovanni."

Giovanni is startled for a moment before he remembers belatedly how common his first name is, and he circles around the shrub to approach Lorenzo from the back. " _Altezza_."

Lorenzo mentions something possibly apologetic to the stranger before turning to face him, his expression a smooth mask. "You have news from Castile?"

"Urgent information, milord." Giovanni plays along, averting his eyes as a servant would.

"Good work," Lorenzo notes absently, and to Giovanni's surprise the young lord reaches out to press the flat of his palm against Giovanni's shoulder, in a gentle downward pressure. To his continued astonishment Giovanni goes down on one knee, as though on automatic, keeping his eyes downcast, then his mind catches up with his instincts and he is relieved. Lorenzo is playing a part, if a dangerous one.

"The Medici are famous for the ingenuity of their spies," the stranger observes.

"We keep them loyal, in return, they provide us with fair service." Lorenzo creeps a gloved palm under his cowl, and Giovanni rubs his cheek against it. The act is feigned; submission is traditionally anathema to an alpha, but the touch sends a guilty frisson through him, like a mechanism being triggered, and his lips part slightly.

"I was not aware that the Medici also used the _aspetti_ for these purposes. I suppose that I am not surprised." The stranger has stopped using the alpha's tonal control, edging back into normal registers. "Perhaps I have misunderstood you, _Altezza_."

"Not at all, we have both had a long day at Court." Lorenzo seems to be gaining confidence; his poise is relaxed. "Thank you for your time, Vice-Chancellor. Should you ever have business in Firenze, my father and I will be happy to host you."

The stranger responds with pleasantries in Spanish, and Giovanni's knees begin to ache a little by the time he finally turns to leave. Lorenzo waits, his palm drifting away to press over his shoulders, and then when Giovanni can no longer hear the Vice-Chancellor's heavy footsteps, the young lord exhales, and steps away. Giovanni dusts leaves off his grass-stained clothes, following as Lorenzo slips into the small pavilion shaded from view of the villa grounds from a curve of the tall shrubs, and sits down heavily on a cushion, carding fingers through his hair with a loud hiss of breath.

"What was he doing to me?" Lorenzo asks finally, softly, as Giovanni waits at the arched entrance to the pavilion, uncertain.

His assassin's senses pick up nothing on a quick, careful scan, and he murmurs, "It is something that an alpha can do to command an omega."

"That _bastardo_ ," Lorenzo growls. "I _thought_ so. Did I make a mistake?"

"I do not think so." Giovanni decides, after some thought. It is possible for a weaker alpha - or a beta - to be overwhelmed by an older alpha's personality, after all, if in different ways. "How long have you been talking to him?"

"An hour, perhaps. A little less. I think I have a headache."

"An hour, and you have shown no reaction, you were sent here clearly as your father's heir, and that final little ruse... I think you are safe. But I will observe this Vice-Chancellor. What is his name?"

"Rodrigo Borgia."

Giovanni frowns a little - he has heard that name before, somewhere. He will have to ask La Volpe. "Do you want me to get rid of him?"

Lorenzo lifts his head, as though startled at his blunt question, and Giovanni silently kicks himself. He is still angry; more than angry, that this Borgia _bastardo_ tried such a trick on a _boy_ , that this other unknown _alpha_ was trying to steal... to trespass...

Thankfully, Lorenzo's acid tongue sweeps Giovanni's mind away from dark corners. "Kindly say that a little louder, _per favore_ , perhaps we may even spend the rest of our stay in the _lovely_ Aragonite dungeons."

"Ah, well, in that case then you will have had a complete tour of Napoli, as your father instructed," Giovanni retreats gratefully behind humor, and Lorenzo watches him oddly, soberly.

" _Grazie mille_. For, earlier," Lorenzo looks uncertain for a moment, when Giovanni stares at him blankly, then he mimes pushing down something. "I did not mean it as-"

"No, of course. It was necessary."

"You were very convincing," Lorenzo allows, and there is a faint flush to the young lord's cheeks that is most becoming. Giovanni averts his eyes quickly, swallowing.

"You asked me to kneel, not to kiss your feet. Should you have tried to get me to do the latter perhaps things would have gone differently."

He doesn't quite manage humor, only an even tone, and Lorenzo lets out a soft sound, like a wounded gasp, and as Giovanni looks up sharply, concerned, he notices to his alarm that the young lord's normally cold dark eyes are dilated, God help him, with a touch of hunger. "Lorenzo," Giovanni murmurs, uncertainly, then, " _Altezza_ ," when Lorenzo doesn't move.

Lorenzo blinks, slowly, then he presses his palms to the cushions beside him, and crosses his long legs; Giovanni's gaze drops to them, automatic, then it feels like the air itself is stolen from his lungs when Lorenzo asks quietly, "So you will kneel willingly for me if I wish it."

It is not a question but a command, and even as Giovanni tries desperately to remember the _metodi_ he feels instead as though he is dragged into an undertow; Lorenzo's repressed empathy seeks the incomplete ends of his existence like an inexorable pull, warring with habit, and he finds himself kneeling before Lorenzo, his gloved palms pressed over the young lord's. "I am yours to command."

Lorenzo's pupils are so dark that they are almost black. "Good," he whispers, and uncrosses his legs. Giovanni sucks in a slow breath as he feels knees pressed against his ribs, the slide of Lorenzo's boots against his thighs, the scrape of the buckles uncomfortable enough that Giovanni blinks, logic finally inserting itself through the fog of instinct, and he swallows, hard. He has known Lorenzo since the lordling was a _child_.

"Lorenzo, this is neither the time nor place. And you are not fully in control of your capacities."

Lorenzo blinks slowly at him, then more rapidly, then he straightens up stiffly as Giovanni awkwardly shuffles back and to his feet. His breeches feel tight, and he is desperately grateful for the thick cut of his vests. Another ten, fifteen minutes, and he could have... as Lorenzo pulls himself to his feet, tension written eloquently in the hunch of his shoulders, Giovanni exhales, trying to stitch together some form of apology-

To his shock, Lorenzo reaches over and drags him close, so sharply that he stumbles, and he finds himself being kissed hard on the mouth, no finesse or tenderness in the least, and when Lorenzo lets him go, just as abruptly as he had pulled him close, Giovanni nearly tumbles headlong onto the cushions.

" _I_ will be the judge of that," Lorenzo growls, his hands clenching and unclenching, his lips bruised and his eyes ablaze, and Giovanni has never seen anyone more beautiful. Then Lorenzo takes in a sharp, harsh breath, and he is cold and composed again, brushing out wrinkles in his sleeves. "Let us return to my chambers," Lorenzo instructs, his tone clipped and businesslike, "For your sake, whatever you have found for me had better not be useless."

1467  
V.

Lorenzo spends his eighteenth birthday hunting, and then feasting, and is mellower by the time he retires to his chambers, shedding female company with careful apologies. He is tired and restless at the same time and the festivities have done little to avert his mind; La Volpe's drugs are growing weaker in effect. It is a damning thought, that perhaps his father will survive his illnesses long enough to name Giuliano his successor because of an inborn stroke of luck than any greater ability at statesmanship.

His mood souring fast, Lorenzo shuts himself in his chambers and breathes out harshly, closing his eyes, only to flinch and straighten at the faint sound of a rasp at his desk. Raising his lighted candle, Lorenzo relaxes and sets the candle on the stand beside the door when Giovanni steps forward into the light, a sheaf of stolen letters in his left hand, that he leaves on the desk.

"Happy birthday, _Altezza_. I brought you your favorite thing in the world. Work." Giovanni's mouth quirks into a grin, the assassin clearly pleased about his juvenile sense of humor, and Lorenzo snorts, stifling a yawn as he circles over to look through the letters, only for Giovanni to grasp his wrist gently before he can pick up the sheaf. "Tomorrow. You look exhausted."

"La Volpe needs to make better drugs." There is no real use in trying to protest otherwise, not before Giovanni.

Giovanni raises his chin briefly, and under the shadow of his cowl his gaze is sombre. "They are not meant as an escape, _Altezza_. It is not a permanent solution to your Nature. Only as a way to assist our kind in completing missions."

"There has to be a way. Italia has many brilliant doctors."

Giovanni is shaking his head before Lorenzo even completes his sentence. "You will hurt yourself this way. I too thought at the start that the _metodi_ and the drugs would be enough. It is clear now that they are only hurting you."

"Then? What is the alternative?" Lorenzo snaps, jerking his wrist away, his temper fraying, finally, now that he is alone, "Tell my father? Disappear?"

Giovanni watches him, and the twist to his lips seems sad. "Would that be so bad, _Altezza_? If your father will not understand, then you could disappear. I will help you."

"I want Firenze."

"Why?" Giovanni presses. "Will it be worth it? You will kill yourself for it."

"Because my family's power and wealth remains the cornerstone of peace in this region, Giovanni, don't you understand that?"

"You have other siblings." Giovanni tugs his cowl down to shade half of his features. "And any peace brokered through pandering to the greed of others or the brute strength of your armies will be fleeting."

Lorenzo's lip curls. "Peace brokered through alliances and through _diplomacy_ , Giovanni. Perhaps florins will ease the way, and _condottieri_ will guard the path, but that is the legacy of the Medici. Our banks, our wealth and status, are a means to an end. There must be a balance against the fractious other factions, the corrupt Church, to our neighbors waiting to swallow our territories. If I die for it, so be it!"

The assassin seems somewhat taken aback at his outburst, silent and still, and Lorenzo exhales, rubbing his eyes. "Talk to La Volpe. _Per favore_."

"There are other ways," Giovanni ventures, sounding uncertain. "You could form an _aspetti_ bond with someone whom you trust. In secret. It will balance out your Nature and you will no longer be dependent on the drugs. You have friends whom you can trust, surely."

"No one knows this of me but you. And possibly La Volpe, by now." La Volpe definitely knows; Lorenzo has endured enough of the old thief's cutting, oblique remarks to be convinced of that fact. And as to Rodrigo Borgia, that remains an unknown creature. Certainly Rodrigo has shown little further interest in Firenze to date, and the Medici have traditionally been wary of the Church's rapacious hunger for influence.

"Tell someone, then. Someone whom you can trust utterly."

"My dear Giovanni," Lorenzo begins dryly, about to preach a small homily on the concept of 'trust' in the game of thrones, and hesitates.

Last year in a fey moment, buoyed by anger and by fear of discovery he had a most inadvisable moment with the assassin in a pavilion in Napoli which was quickly consigned to the annals of adolescent embarrassments. Now, however, he recalls all too viscerally the heady thrill that he had felt when Giovanni had knelt so willingly, the way Giovanni's eyes had been, dark and prideful and hungry, yet waiting for his word. For his command.

"Perhaps one of the Orsini," Giovanni grouses vaguely, having had little interest in Florentine politics in general. "After all once you marry one of them, their family will have a vested interest in your preservation."

"That is a rather simplistic and often inaccurate way of looking at matters. My sister Bianca is married to a Pazzi. Yet the Pazzi remain dangerous to the Medici," Lorenzo points out dismissively. "Giovanni, are you married?"

Giovanni tilts his head, as though puzzled. "No."

"Why not?"

"Well," Giovanni hedges, rather helplessly, then he grins his insolent grin, "Between you and my brother you both run me ragged, _Altezza_."

"But you have women?"

Giovanni shrugs. "I am not celibate."

"With women of various Natures? Or only alphas and betas?"

"Various." Giovanni's lips quirk briefly at the interrogation.

"But the _aspetti_ bond..." Lorenzo hesitates, a little confused. The books in the library are clinical and yet unspecific about the process, and Lorenzo has been careful of asking Becchi. Just as marriage, _aspetti_ bonds between the noble-born and those of power tend to be arranged.

"Is not a simple matter of a tumble between the sheets, _Altezza_." Giovanni's smile is a crooked, wry thing, indulgent and resigned. "A natural one takes years. It is more than a question of mere compatibility. More than a question of trust."

"That is not what I have heard."

"No. I would not think it would be."

"Giovanni," Lorenzo frowns, unable to understand the regret threaded in Giovanni's tone, folding his arms, "What are you trying to tell me?"

Giovanni tenses for a long moment, then he sighs. "To be careful, _Altezza_."

The assassin is lying. The assassin is lying and... and Lorenzo finally understands, flush with revelation and not a little relief. Sometimes the solution to a Gordian knot of a problem lies right in front of the riddler. "So you are not married, and you are not bonded?"

"I am not. For an alpha, it is not-"

"Do you want to be?"

This time, Giovanni hesitates for a heartbeat before shrugging. "With the right person, perhaps."

"And what would this person be like?" Lorenzo makes sure that his tone drips with sarcasm. "The 'right person'? Have you been reading that awful romantic drivel that my sisters persist in recognising as literature?"

"Someone far less difficult than you, _Altezza_ ," Giovanni drawls, though he smiles his lopsided smile. Waiting. He doesn't move, even as pure impulse shifts Lorenzo up onto his own desk, waits until Lorenzo crooks a finger to beckon him closer and fit him between his thighs, lift back Giovanni's cowl and drape his arms over shoulder and shoulder-guard. Lorenzo's breath stutters, and he grits his teeth, forcing calm even as his heart quickens and hammers. "Lorenzo," Giovanni's humor sobers abruptly. "I did not mean-"

"Can I trust you?" Lorenzo interrupts, and it was meant to be imperious, rhetorical; instead he sounds as vulnerable as he did when he was truly still a child and he hates it, almost enough to pull back and brush the incident aside - wavering, he nearly does, but for gloved hands stroking hesitantly up his hips, reverent, heartbreakingly tender.

"Always."

When they kiss, there is no magical spark, some sort of divine revelation or a sense of wholeness, or whatever it is that he was vaguely expecting after years of being force-fed second-hand romanticisms from Court plays and his sisters' favorite poems. It is all rather disappointing, Lorenzo decides, mulishly, and he still has his headache, and the restlessness, and then... and then Giovanni _moans_ , pressed flush against him, between their lips, like a man drowning, as though he has wanted this for far longer than Lorenzo had originally calculated, and Giovanni trembles under his palms as Lorenzo pulls him closer.

5.0.

Technically, the _aspetti_ bond does not have to be sexual, only intimate, and as much as he desires his young master Giovanni knows he has to be patient, and if Lorenzo wants nothing more, then he knows he will accept it. Instead, he focuses on weaning Lorenzo off the drugs, endures Lorenzo's tempers and the bite of his tongue; the heir to power in Firenze is mercurial when he does not get his way. It takes months, and then longer yet for Lorenzo to grudgingly accept his touch where it is not commanded, longer still before they kiss again once Lorenzo discovers that an occasional proximity suffices for one well practiced in the _metodi_.

During Lorenzo's first heat when they are bonded he does not allow Giovanni to do any more than hold him, as uncomfortable as it has to be for Lorenzo himself, his back pressed against Giovanni's chest, shaking and panting in shallow wet gasps against the sheets, and each wounded sound goes straight to the painful ache in Giovanni's arousal. Giovanni spends the night in frustrated agony, unable to find relief with just his free hand but equally unable to voice any complaint; Lorenzo does not show it and will not admit it but he is frightened of the bond and the vulnerability that it represents, and Giovanni knows that if he tries anything at all when Lorenzo is at his most susceptible without Lorenzo's instigation, the fragile trust between them will be broken. So he endures this, too.

At least he has other matters to occupy his mind with. Antonio reports that he is close to ascertaining the identity of the Spaniard, rather smugly, to the point that he has travelled all the way to Firenze from Venezia to tell Giovanni and La Volpe personally. A seemingly permanent scowl seems to have set up on the Immortal's already sour usual expression, and the thieves soon fall to squabbling. Giovanni stifles a yawn and drifts, slouched against the none-too-clean wall in the back room of one of La Volpe's taverns. From Lorenzo's shortening temper, Giovanni judges that a second 'madness' would be upon him soon. He finds that he isn't looking forward to it in the least.

"You seem tired, friend Giovanni," Antonio observes, then he roots around in the pouch at his waist and tosses Giovanni a small brown packet. "Here. Try this. It arrived recently, from a friend of mine, a trader. He calls it _caffe_. It will awaken your senses when you are weary."

"It is a trick," La Volpe grumbles. "The drink is foul."

"Thank you, Antonio," Giovanni decides, judiciously, as Antonio opens his mouth to protest, and tucks the packet away. "So there was a meeting of the Templar in Venezia, about the Shield?"

"No, the Apple. The Shield seems to have been thoroughly misplaced by both sides," Antonio eyes La Volpe meaningfully.

The Immortal bristles. "That was evil chance that day, _friend_ Antonio. You would not have been able to do any better."

"Perhaps so, but-"

"Friends, friends," Giovanni raises his hands, palms up in mock surrender. "Please. About the Templar-"

He has to clap a hand over his mouth to stifle another yawn, and La Volpe snorts. "You spend the daytime working as a banker and spare the night for the Creed. Soon you will collapse. Hopefully it will be on your ledgers and not on the business end of a Templar blade."

His dual occupation is not the reason behind his weariness, but Giovanni replies, dryly, "Try and upkeep a fort, Immortal. It is most expensive."

"I know. I have done it before. Usually it is a pointless and tedious exercise," La Volpe retorts dismissively. "In any regard, one would think that you could just ask for the money from your om-"

" _La Volpe_ ," Giovanni snaps, and Antonio arches his eyebrows even as La Volpe sits back, smirking.

"Congratulations," Antonio offers brightly, after a brief glance between Giovanni's darkening expression and La Volpe's self-satisfied one.

"Thank you." Giovanni mutters.

"I would not have guessed, friend Giovanni." Antonio pats his wrist soothingly, seemingly misunderstanding the import of Giovanni's flash of temper. "And of course we should all preserve our privacy in such personal matters."

"Well," Giovanni frowns, unable to parse Antonio's guileless features, "I-"

"He is an Auditore and they must always choose the most difficult and ridiculous paths," La Volpe interjects. "In the face of all reasonable and well-meaning advice to the contrary."

"Ah, well," Antonio muses philosophically, "The road less travelled-"

"Is often strewn with the bodies of the incurably stupid," La Volpe finishes acerbically, and the thieves fall to squabbling again even as Giovanni groans and presses his face into his palms.

The hour is late, and Giovanni has a thorough headache by the time he drags himself over to the Medici palazzo to check on Lorenzo. It seems that the Spaniard is a powerful member of the clergy. It is not much to go by - this much La Volpe has harped on at length - but it is a lead. Lorenzo is grimly reading some treaty at his desk, and he doesn't look up when Giovanni climbs in through the window.

"I may have to visit Volterra..." Lorenzo pauses and looks up with a frown, as though something occurs to him. "Giovanni, go home. You're all but swaying on your feet."

Giovanni notes the fingers that Lorenzo has curled white-knuckled against the desk, the blown pupils and the flush to his cheeks, and fights the urge to wet his lips. "Do you not need me here tonight?"

"You need rest."

"I can rest here, if you would allow me to."

Lorenzo glowers at him, already on the defensive, then he nods sharply and turns angry eyes back and pointedly to the treaty. It is not a good start to the night, and Giovanni swallows a sigh, trudging towards the lush bed, unbuckling scabbards and belts as he goes, disrobing to his breeches. He is dozing by the time he feels Lorenzo press awkwardly against his back, all elbows and knees, then Giovanni wakes up all at once when ink-stained fingers circle tentatively down his belly and dip an inch under the hem of his breeches.

Lorenzo waits, as though shy, or perhaps he is checking to see if Giovanni is awake. Frozen, Giovanni almost stops breathing, and then he misuses a lifetime's worth of Creed discipline to smooth out his breathing and slow it, as though dozing again. Slowly, achingly slowly, the fingers push under his breeches, creeping ticklishly lower until Lorenzo brushes over coarse curls in a delicious tease, and then Giovanni nearly bites down on his tongue when pads roughened by swordplay and tourneys trace curiously up his rapidly firming cock.

It's probably amply obvious to Lorenzo by now that Giovanni is fully awake, and quite possibly it is just as obvious that the feather-light touches are torturous; Giovanni sucks in a harsh breath as fingers trace up his thickening arousal to the uncut tip, stroking clinically over the folds of foreskin, and then he hisses as a thumb presses, dry, against the tip. It's rough and it's not entirely pleasurable but he moans in protest when Lorenzo pulls his hand away, as though startled. " _Altezza_ ," Giovanni pleads, and it's only when Lorenzo stiffens that Giovanni realizes through the banked fog of lust that he's used an alpha's tone. " _Mi... mi dispiace_ but-"

"Shut up until I allow you to speak," Lorenzo growls, fingers clenched over his arm, tight enough to bruise, "And don't you dare use _that_ on me again."

Giovanni grits his teeth as pride and his alpha's Nature struggle against the order, against submission, and when he replies with a curt, "Of course, _padrone_ ," it is defiant rather than obedient.

Lorenzo's fingers still from where they are curiously exploring the dip of his collarbones, as though in warning, before continuing their deft exploration. Lorenzo, Giovanni surmises, has probably never bedded a man before. The _aspetti_ bonds are part of a narrow Papal decree of exceptional circumstances; other than that, casual relations between men are deemed forbidden. Giovanni has never paid social rules very much heed, but Lorenzo has always been careful of anything that might affect his chances at power.

Lorenzo seems overly curious about Giovanni's scars, tracing every mark that he finds on his skin until Giovanni is wrung tight with nervous impatience; he taps pointedly at Lorenzo's left wrist, then when Lorenzo ignores him, Giovanni decides to talk anyway. It's either that or go mad from his teasing. " _Altezza_ ," Giovanni reaches over to press a palm over one of Lorenzo's thighs, the outlines dim even in his excellent night vision. " _Abbi pieta, Altezza_."

"Oh." Lorenzo pulls his hands away quickly, then he clears his throat as he shifts away on the bed. "Did I... it was not pleasant?"

"It was pleasant," Giovanni hastens to assure him, rolling up onto his knees to stroke his palms up the thin sleeves of Lorenzo's nightshirt. "Allow me to please you in turn, _padrone_."

Lorenzo shudders, exhaling; it is a nervous sound, a jarring expression from his young master, even at his most vulnerable. Unnerved, and now a little ashamed of himself for pressing the matter when Lorenzo is not in full control of himself, Giovanni drops his hands, carefully. He is about to lie down again when palms press over his cheeks and tug him over; Lorenzo breathes a slow, soft affirmation between them before their lips slant together.

Giovanni has enough patience left to kiss Lorenzo until he is pliant and hungry, fingers twisting in Giovanni's hair or scratching over his shoulders, pressed down on the bed under Giovanni's greater weight; then Lorenzo moans raggedly when they break for air and that is the end of Giovanni's self control. Lorenzo's fingers dig into his arm when Giovanni rucks the nightshirt up his thighs, and Lorenzo rasps, " _Giovanni_ ," when he ignores it.

"I want to put my mouth on you," Giovanni whispers into his ear, roughly, his voice near broken with lust, "Take all of you down my throat, choke on you when you come."

The young lord shivers and pants at the sound of that, though he clutches uncertainly at Giovanni still, then he seems to force some semblance of his usual poise, with a prim, "Very well then," that makes Giovanni silently resolve to take him apart tonight.

Lorenzo is silent when Giovanni makes good on his word; he is a little out of practice, but after a few attempts he manages to take Lorenzo down almost all the way to the hilt, his fingers curved over the rest and squeezing when Lorenzo bucks, impatient and imperious, fingers curled over his skull. Thighs tense against his shoulders as Giovanni sucks and strokes his tongue over taut flesh, and then finally - a sigh, stuttered, when Giovanni draws back with careful calculation before swallowing him again with a low hum. Lorenzo goes deliciously boneless and one hand draws away and up; there is just enough light for Giovanni to watch the young lord press his own fingers into his mouth to stifle his cries. He moans at the sight, squirming and uncomfortable in his breeches, but Lorenzo stills and tugs at him impatiently and Giovanni sets his hands on Lorenzo's narrow hips, ignoring his own needs for now.

Lorenzo does not take long before he is spent, down Giovanni's throat and over his mouth; Giovanni frees himself with fingers jerky from impatience, swiping a palm over Lorenzo's seed to use it to slick himself, stroking roughly until he spills in urgent spurts over Lorenzo's thigh. Lorenzo makes a shocked sound and flinches away with a sharp " _Giovanni,_ " but the outrage is half-hearted; when Giovanni mumbles something, rather unrepentant, Lorenzo snorts and settles back on the rich cushions, reaching over to splay a palm over one of Giovanni's knees, slipping up over the inside of his thigh, over the fabric of his breeches.

1468  
VI.

His father is ill, and this gives Lorenzo reason not to have to throw another tiresome coming of age party. The first of the year's cycles tend to come at or just before his birthday, and although Lorenzo will not admit it, spending any moment of it away from his alpha is thoroughly uncomfortable. He takes Court in his father's place and makes decisions on loans and investments, all the while irritably distracted, and retires as early as possible without inciting rumor.

Giovanni is waiting for him in his chambers, going through a notebook thick with what looks like La Volpe's spidery handwriting, and he looks up when Lorenzo closes the door sharply and marches up to him. "Did you miss me, _padrone_ ," Giovanni grins, dusty from travel, again on one of his mysterious family errands around Italia, but Lorenzo is in no mood for banter and drags him over for a hungry kiss.

He ends up riding Giovanni on the antique chair at his desk, until Giovanni starts begging him, then threatening him, and eventually Giovanni resorts to that odd ability of the alphas, the voice of command, which Lorenzo dislikes intensely when he is in his usual frame of mind and which he secretly craves when he is not, and he shakes apart while Giovanni claws at his thighs and buries himself as deeply as possible with a snarl.

As they catch their breath, with Lorenzo slumped against his assassin and wrinkling his nose at the mixed scents of sweat, leather, horses, and whatever odd filth Giovanni might have tracked in on his way back from wherever he had been, Giovanni begins to chuckle softly.

"What?" Lorenzo demands crossly.

"I know why you do that to me." Giovanni strokes his soiled hands up and down the curve of Lorenzo's back, probably contributing to the ruin of his clothes. Lorenzo is too sleepy and sated to care, the madness subsided for now. "Happy birthday, _Altezza_."

Lorenzo ignores that. "Where did you go this time?"

"Roma." Giovanni offers nothing more, even as Lorenzo furrows his brow. "And you? What have you been doing while I was away? I hear that you are marrying an Orsini after all."

"The Medici need heirs." Lorenzo responds, dismissive. "My mother tells me that the Lady Clarice is a beta."

"Mm." Giovanni nods, slowly. "That would be preferable."

Lorenzo eyes Giovanni thoughtfully, a little surprised after all at Giovanni's nonchalant answer. At his blink, Giovanni grins at him, amused. "Why, would you prefer it if I were jealous, _Altezza_?"

"Of course not." Lorenzo retorts, if a little sullenly. "That would be childish."

Giovanni laughs at him until, indignant, Lorenzo tries to pull away and finds himself crushed close instead despite his curses and his snarling, kissed roughly despite attempts to bite, and eventually Giovanni simply lifts him up onto his desk, ignoring Lorenzo's protests and the scattering quills and papers.

6.0.

The world changes quickly in the space of a year, and Lorenzo quickly becomes the uncrowned ruler of Firenze upon his father's death and marries by proxy to secure an alliance, all at twenty years of age, as easily as pieces slotting into place. After consistent and patient cajoling near the end of autumn, Lorenzo agrees to visit Monteriggioni, if in secret, and with many acerbic predictions of boredom. He does, however, visibly relax once they are out of sight of Firenze, spurring Morello into a canter.

Giovanni follows at a more sedate pace, though he is careful to watch for danger. A doppelganger is installed with Giuliano in one of the Medici's country retreats, and they should be safe, hopefully. The Spaniard seems to be lying low again; perhaps their latest forays against his hold on power in Venezia are finally weakening their yet unidentified enemy.

Lorenzo eventually circles back to his side, flushed with pleasure, reining Morello into a trot, the stallion snorting its displeasure. "Surely you are not about to continue on such a crawl all the way to Monteriggioni, Giovanni."

"My horse is not as fast as yours and I would prefer not to run it into the ground, milord."

"Tch. Cavaliere is from my stables and it is more than capable of a faster pace. A _donkey_ would be capable of a faster pace."

"Racing around the countryside and calling attention to yourself, what a splendid idea," Giovanni points out, though he grins.

Lorenzo glares at him. "As compared to the attention we call to ourselves by sedately walking two obvious thoroughbreds on a major thoroughfare, I suppose."

They squabble on comfortable lines all the way to Monteriggioni, where Mario meets them at the border with a small band of _condottieri_. Lorenzo surveys them critically as Giovanni greets his brother, and then, despite his best efforts, Lorenzo and Mario take to eyeing up each other, like a pair of wolves spoiling for a fight.

"Perhaps La Volpe is right about you," Mario tells Giovanni with a melodramatic sigh, even as Lorenzo bristles and keeps an icy silence all the way back to the fort, up until Giovanni finally corners him, alone in their chambers.

"Was it too much to ask God for?" Giovanni tells him dryly, when Lorenzo scowls and squirms and tries to wriggle free from his embrace, "For the two most important people in my life to actually hold even one civil conversation together?"

Lorenzo stills, though his scowl doesn't fade. "I doubt that your brother holds many civil conversations with outsiders."

True. "And _I_ thought that your much-vaunted diplomacy was very good at creating civil discourse, _Altezza_."

"Lorenzo the diplomat is currently attending to a family affair somewhere in the countryside, remember?" Lorenzo flicks him over the forehead with a finger.

"Oh? Then which Lorenzo am I holding in my arms?" Giovanni smirks, though he sobers when Lorenzo merely watches him steadily, palms pressed over his shoulders, and then Lorenzo leans close, to brush his mouth gently over Giovanni's left ear.

"Guess," Lorenzo instructs in a low purr, confident, with none of the painful vulnerability of his youth, even as he cants his hips forward, and Giovanni growls and bares his teeth as he tips Lorenzo's chin forward.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! :) Good god, I'm tired. I'll edit this monster tomorrow.
> 
> By the way, I have NOT yet played ACR (I will only have the time to do so in the next couple of weeks), so no spoilers please!


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